


Golden lies and bitter truths

by dayinthelife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayinthelife/pseuds/dayinthelife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the asoiafkinkmeme. Prompt: She dresses him up in Jaime’s armor and is very disappointed when it doesn’t fit.</p><p>He is nothing more than a lamb in lion’s clothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden lies and bitter truths

_Twenty nine_ , she thinks as she watches the sun sink into the sea beyond her window, bathing the chamber in an eerie half-light and casting shadows upon the walls. She likes dusk best - it doesn’t have the stark honesty that midday insists upon, nor does it smother with unattainable fantasy as the dead of night is wont to do; instead, dusk presents its falsehoods subtly, the glint of the day’s last light effortlessly fashioning gold from honey, the shadow enveloping a timid smile and turning it into a brazen smirk with ease. 

_Almost a moon’s turn_. She clutches his shoulder, burying her face in his neck and honey-golden hair, but still she cannot force the thought from her mind. The smell of him is wrong, cloves and wine and wrong, not Jaime, but entirely, undoubtedly Lancel. Even the reprieve of dusk cannot twist some truths, and as he shudders against her she sighs. He mistakes her frustration for pleasure and laughs, catching her lips in a kiss before lying down beside her. He doesn’t curl up against her, entwining their limbs and pressing his forehead to hers like Jaime would, but wraps his arm around her waist and nuzzles against her shoulder. She feels his breath on her throat as it slows, and when she is certain he is asleep she turns in toward him, grasping his wrist and pulling him closer. _Twenty nine._

She pretends not to notice the hurt that flashes in his eyes when she hands him the golden helm and mail the next evening; she smiles seductively, her eyes never leaving his as she disrobes and beckons him to the bed. He has freckles, she’s come to notice. Not many, but as days turn to weeks she finds herself resenting them, the smatterings of imperfection strewn carelessly across his cheeks. She lets loose her braids and lifts his shirt. He is predictably passive and willing as she helps him into the mail, only grunting softly as he feels the heaviness of it. 

Yet he is nothing more than a lamb in lion’s clothing. The mail is too long, bunching unattractively underneath his arms as he shifts uncomfortably under the weight. But it’s almost glowing in the fading light and she finds herself calling to mind a memory of him in the last tourney. It was the midst of summer, and the sun had made his armor gleam as if it were made of fire. He had named her the queen of love and beauty that day and she had worn the crown for him that night. She tilts her head and observes the freckled boy, shining almost apologetically before her, and takes the helm from his hands. His smile slips slightly as she places it on his head, the armor covering almost all but his eyes and mouth.

The mail chafes against her stomach and Jaime’s helm keeps slipping down his face, but she refuses to admit defeat. She pushes him down into the pillows and straddles him roughly, grasping for purchase on the metal rings worn smooth with use. In the dark they no longer glitter, but the night obscures less satisfactory things as well, and all she can make out is the catlike glint of Lancel’s eyes as she leans in to kiss him. 

After, with his arm across her stomach and his chest rising and falling out of time, not even darkness can keep the thought at bay. _Thirty._


End file.
